


Talk To The Walls

by Rue_River_Styx



Series: Disenchanted Dystopians [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aesthetics, Anger, Arkham Asylum, Articles, Author Commentary, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Basically, Blogger - Freeform, Blogging, Confessions, Crack and Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Diary/Journal, Embarrassment, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/F, F/M, Fear, Feelings Realization, Gen, Gender Issues, Good Writing, Inspired by Music, Leadership, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Mind Manipulation, Multi, Musical References, Organized rants, Other, Philosophy, Poetic, Poetry, Poor Life Choices, Primrose Black, Quotations, Rants, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Real Life, References to Depression, Sad and Happy, Secret Identity, Violent Thoughts, Website: Disenchanted Dystopians, Wishful Thinking, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22019563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rue_River_Styx/pseuds/Rue_River_Styx
Summary: Mild greetings, disillusioned wanderers, and welcome to the first documented episode of our miserably adventurous existence. As we stray, sinking further into the unknown valleys and caves, refusing to surrender yet declining the option to live, your unreliable narrator offers a partnership—with no exchanging of vows, we will enter an anonymous reader-writer deal: I will write, the very thing I have been doing without question since the beginning, and if it suits your dark tastes, you may read at your own discretion.Here we will begin documenting the woes, the temporary highs and mostly, the in-between thoughts that consume “people like us” every nightly hour we remain awake, unable to sleep, unable to do anything, much like sunlight hours, only our meaningless existence seems more appropriate, more understood at night, and therefore more meaningful. Agree? Then you are welcome to stay and feel. Congratulations! Here’s your encouragement for the week—you are now self-aware. Have fun with that.
Series: Disenchanted Dystopians [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588915
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Talk To The Walls

“God damn, man-child

You act like a kid even though you stand six foot two

Self-loathing poet, resident Laurel Canyon know-it-all

You talk to the walls when the party gets bored of you

But I don’t get bored, I just see it through

Why wait for the best when I could have you?”

from Lana Del Rey’s _Norman fucking Rockwell_

Mild greetings, disillusioned wanderers, and welcome to the first documented episode of our miserably adventurous existence. As we stray, sinking further into the unknown valleys and caves, refusing to surrender yet declining the option to live, your unreliable narrator offers a partnership—with no exchanging of vows, we will enter an anonymous reader-writer deal: I will write, the very thing I have been doing without question since the beginning, and if it suits your dark tastes, you may read at your own discretion.

Here we will begin documenting the woes, the temporary highs and mostly, the in-between thoughts that consume “people like us” every nightly hour we remain awake, unable to sleep, unable to do anything, much like sunlight hours, only our meaningless existence seems more appropriate, more understood at night, and therefore more meaningful. Agree? Then you are welcome to stay and feel. Congratulations! Here’s your encouragement for the week—you are now self-aware. Have fun with that.

I often wonder what puppeteer controls me. Do they purposely throw me around, alter my story’s moral on a daily basis just for entertainment? Or is it a more personal reason, such as making an example of me, an antisocial kid whose promising future was based on nothing but “good” behavior that included never asking for help (especially when it was most needed), hiding from any social interaction, handing my work in on-time and various other submissive tendencies. I wonder many things, but most often focus on how everyone could miss it—how could they miss my painful inability to carry a simple conversation without being embarrassed? How could teachers deem me intelligent on account of me being selectively mute for most of my middle school years? How could anyone make that assumption when _it_ has been blatantly obvious through isolation, sloppy appearances, misplaced papers, severe anxiety and sleepy eyes? The puppeteer previously controlling me is now gone, abandoning their work up to this point, seeing no more damage they could inflict on a raggedy doll tearing at the seams. No wonder I have a deep-rooted hatred for dolls.

They have left, and in the past year or so I have been cruelly cursed with a disease called thought, a sickness called self-awareness.

When a puppet becomes self-aware, they may immediately run off into sunlight with the impression that running away is freedom; quickly enough, we discover you cannot abandon your own soul no matter how far, how deep you sink. Falling victim to this realization speeds the process of deterioration, decomposition, having waited patiently through obscure childhoods and questionable young adulthood. We become victims to ourselves over and over and over again. Listen, for this is the cycle devouring hope and the one we should resist most. The puppets become aware that they are pawns and seek to find newer meaning, a path their shoes control; the shoes fall off. Their masters do not realize until much later, followed by analyzing and our familiar friend rumination, which destroys our confidence in leading ourselves into new habits. It is hopeless to fight rumination, as we have been unknowingly making its home inside our heads, where it thrives, births terrible worries and blurry memories in which only a sensation of embarrassment (all that is needed in the fight to possess us) remains clear. When running away doesn’t help, the puppet stops; they may even wish for a master again, because at least that way, someone has an idea of where they are going, what their purpose is, no matter how deeply the controlled hates where they are and what they do. For a short while, controlled feels better than oblivion.

In the end, Pinocchio returns to his father, and his story ends there. Heath Ledger’s Joker is caught, and the movie ends. Such is not parallel to life itself. Everything continues when the film stops rolling, falling into routine, but puppets do not enjoy routine, for it gives them a sense of loneliness, repeating their same motions and dark thoughts, getting nowhere. Routine is equally as paralyzing as significant change—somehow, they share the same outcome, and to a wanderer paused on their path, this awareness is devastating. The Joker says to Batman while in interrogation, “ _I’m like a dog chasing cars; I wouldn’t know what to do if I caught it_.” Like with everything said, I take this quote too literally and begin wondering what my dog would do if they caught up to a car they were chasing—is it not the same for humans, I wonder? What comes after? After we graduate, after we settle on the first person who pays us much-needed attention, after we have children, after we hit a mid-life crisis, after…everything.

What are we working towards, and why is it so difficult to focus our attention on one idea?

(And yes, I did quote the Joker by memory—I cannot recall a specific peaceful time throughout my memories, but having seen _The Dark Knight_ over thirty-times, I am able to recite nearly every line off the top of my head. Impressive, though probably worrisome towards “normal” people…)

You have now witnessed your first mania-induced confession outside your own mind.

Intrusive thoughts have no morals, no time limit, no schedule; we think rapidly, dangerously, obsessively to a point it can no longer be ignored, and that is where self-awareness comes in. Demons lay dormant inside their host for many years before revealing their deception, but I am afraid in our case the only demon inside us (that I know of) is called neurology. Perhaps a wire was cut. Perhaps something was twisted too far, stretched to test its elasticity only for the rope to break. I am curious towards the how, but when a puppet goes off on its own, the _why_ seems more fitting. We can ruminate on it longer, follow whatever self-deprecating thoughts lead us astray, down a shadowy road we can see, though are incapable of escaping. We panic. We enter mania. Mania tries to find a way out, but is too uncontrollable to use effectively. Mania is not always a foe—it has energy one never knew they possessed, and energy is greatly underrated. Where was I going with this paragraph?

Oh yes. Puppets. You see how easily I am carried away with self-loathing? This puppet is overly-aware, conscious of all their flaws, alarmingly dark thoughts, secret deeds and accidental impressions made. I am aware. I do not know what comes next. The movies never show the aftermath unless it is the entire plot’s focal point—I hope my agony and split-thinking is not the moral, for it is no fault of mine that I am a puppet without a hand, without a head, though not without heart. I feel, I crave, I try until the unseen master, that is, the mind, ambushes me from behind. They do not need training nor new snipers to infiltrate me; they are already in control, and have been for a very long time, I have discovered. Though one has to wonder, is it the realization, or the obliviousness that frightens us the most? Is it the moment we understand every strange tendency, odd antisocial habit that horrifies? Or is it thought’s sickly cousin, those years upon years of accidentally kicking symptoms under the bed, impotent like outsiders over chronic issues blatantly showcasing their connection to other unresolved tension? I, for one, fear the oblivion. Why? Because I worry not about things I remember doing, but about the things I _don’t_ remember doing, although in my case, they become one in the same.

It is nice, talking to walls…they cannot show facial expression or disgust at my confessions. We have wandered this far, fellow dystopians, fellow killjoys: who knows what goes on after filming ceases? I never wanted to ask this question, as it is not fair to anyone, but since we’ve already lost ourselves, it will feel much better venturing deeper beside friends. I hope our clashing mania will not result in anything toxic and that this deserted corner of the twisted mind will feel accepting, welcoming, the piece that just might begin the puzzle itself. Try as I try to not let the questions get to you, rather answer them yourself, and follow by questioning _those_ answers. Since we can trust no one, old habit forged by our previous master, it is best to stay in comfort, but know this space can only be filled with those whose thoughts mirror your own. We are friends here, disillusioned dystopians falling together, and I welcome self-aware, self-deemed _monsters_ to join, to listen.

Maybe through these confessions, we will discover what happens after the camera stops rolling.

Yours,

_self loathing poet_

**QOTD** :

What do you fear most: _oblivion_ or _realization_

**Next Entry** : “ _Look At This Tangle Of Thorns”_


End file.
